The Dark Ages
by GraciellaRed74
Summary: SEQUEL TO "INTENDED" AND "THREE PRINCES" - Tig/Joss/Ope - With most of the club in prison, keeping SAMCRO alive falls on the shoulders of Ope and Joss. As they fight and sacrifice for the club, the mysterious love between them is finally identified.
1. Back In Time

_Disclaimer:__ I do not own any characters from "Sons of Anarchy." They are the property of Kurt Sutter and Fox Network. No money is changing hands in the writing, reading or distribution of this story._

The Dark Ages

A sequel to "Intended" and "Three Princes"

Chapter 1

How many days had it been now? Joss's mind drifted here and there, in and out of centuries…the grip on reality she took so much for granted slipping minute by minute. Joss used to measure the time by the drop in the evening temperature, when she was cold, when she lay on the dirty asphalt, doing what she could to tuck her naked body up into a ball for warmth, she knew it was night…the freezing night. Suffering the cold had been the only sure way she'd had of knowing she'd passed another day, her eyes were no longer trustworthy, one still swelled shut and the other crushed close by the leaden heaviness of her headache…dehydration…she'd been without water for far too long. Despite the incinerating heat of the day, she no longer could sweat, just lay here roasting inside and out…watching water drip slowly and slackly from a sun bleached garden hose…only six feet away...but it may as well have been miles. Her mouth was dry, no spit remained to swallow; she swore she could feel the usually soft, moist, supple skin of her inner cheeks beginning to shed off like a snake's skin, rolling back against her throat and choking her like dust. She prayed sometimes that the rest of her skin would peel away as well; when it wasn't night, the desert sun was unrelenting and her fair, creamy skin baked red and blistered, too sore and tight to allow for very much movement. There was cover not far away, the overhanging tin roof of the old warehouse that sat centrally within the fenced salvage yard, relief from the hell of the sun's rays, so tempting…so maddeningly close…but Joss couldn't move.

The steel cuff around her right wrist had at first left sharp indentations that over the last three days had deepened into bloody crevices, but Joss couldn't feel them. Her hand was stretched upwards above her head, held to the support pole of the thick gauge chain link fence with a heavy screw lock at a torturous height; if she stood, the placement of the handcuffs and lock was low enough to make her have to stoop over, and when she collapsed to the ground, as she'd done what she estimated to be two days ago, her right arm was pulled upwards with enough force and tension to be slowly working her collar bone away from her humorous. If not for feeling that agonizing pull of her limp fist in the cuff, Joss would have thought she no longer had a right hand. There was nothing but cold numbness above her elbow, and the march of prickly, pins and needles was now creeping down into her biceps, eating away at the sensation that still remained in her fettered arm. Good, if she could no longer feel her right arm, perhaps it would be easier to get rid of it…to give into the beast that raged and raged whenever how trapped she was hit her full force, left her a howling, wailing, thrashing monster, chained up like a rabid junkyard dog. The beast had turned on her several times, for it had no one else to set itself upon here where it was tethered to the fence, and her skin was hacked and slashed by her very own broken and ragged fingernails, her shoulders, her left forearm, even her lower lip shredded by her own snapping teeth…perhaps when night fell again, the beast would bite or claw off her right arm, and then she'd be free…free…

It wouldn't be much longer now…it wouldn't be long…she'd started telling herself that the moment Ope had reluctantly driven away…she'd had to order him to harshly, there'd been tears in his eyes, it hurt him to leave her here; through it all Ope still loved her, Joss knew he did, knew he always would in the same odd way that she also loved him. Opie loved her, and he would be back for her, that she didn't doubt…but what would she be when he finally came? Both Joss and Opie knew how she'd be treated, the spectacle that would be made of her, the things she would suffer if Joss, SAMCRO's princess, made collateral of herself to Martin Drackmond. "Drack" as he was called was the president…no, he was the tyrant who reigned for more than twenty years over The Horde, unopposed, the heads of any that challenged him still on display along the poles of the chain link fence behind the old warehouse. In her transience, Joss had come to be traded to The Horde years ago, before Tig had patched her and married her. It was the only successful escape she'd ever made from an MC, and also her most desperate, she was successful in getting away because she had to be…it was the only way to survive…and Drack remembered her for it and hated her even more for getting away…she'd been the only girl to ever make him look as pathetic and foolish as that.

But SAMCRO was weak; Jax had sunk the club before he'd left it, dealing out his brothers to anyone who would listen, SAMCRO's numbers were decimated, so many patches in jails and prisons. The club's income was sporadic and more often than not, there was no income at all, legal fees still piling up, bail moneys paid out long ago never replenished. SAMCRO was broke; it was impossible to make any money with so many brothers in prison…Clay…Juice…Happy…Tig…Tig…oh God…Tig, her man, her lover, her husband, the man that owned her…Tig, her Tig! Joss was here, chained naked to this fence, dying in the sun, for her man and his club. She had agreed to be SAMCRO's payment to Drack for guns and for men, The Horde was a mercenary club, up for hire by anyone with a big enough checkbook…and there was a war on, Jax had chosen now to hit SAMCRO…and all Drack would accept in exchange for weapons and his best soldiers…was Joss…making her suffer, prolonging her intended death in every way he could, tearing her apart in mind, body and soul…humiliating her, leaving her naked in the elements, Drack letting his pitbulls lick the blood from her open wounds, his men encouraged to use her as their urinal, Drack laughing as he sent jolts of electric current through the metal fence she was bound too, her body shaking and jumping so wildly and violently that the muscles in her legs, ribs and arms had torn, making it impossible to even try to duck or dodge the crowbar Drack frequently took to her. She used to cry…she used to be scared…she used feel pain…no more…

…once again there was music…Joss could more than hear the now familiar polyphonic chanting of medieval prayers and melodies, the hollow and haunting voices of men, or of women, monks and nuns, echoing down the stone corridors, shimmering in the air waves, notes rising and falling so smoothly and gently, like floating ghostly up and down the tight spiral, stone staircase. She was writing…words flowing freely through her mind as though her fingers danced effortlessly along the keys of her laptop…castle walls began to surround her, trapping octaves so luridly ethereal they penetrated through to the soul with the power to momentarily lift the princess from her dark turmoil. She could feel the lyrics inside her head, her lips moving silently along in sync with each word of Latin; "Tantum ergo sacramentum, veneremur cernui: et antiquum documentum, novo cedat ritui: praestet fides supplementum sensuum defectui…" She was often unaware of what she intoned, but its meaning wasn't important…only hearing it was. As another breath left her tired, sore body, instruments were becoming discernable, wooden flutes, mandores and dulcimers, the tempered whistle of the flute clothed in the purring, plucky strum of the mandore, the dulcimer hammering out the tinkling heartbeat of the song that grew and grew to a dizzying crescendo in her head. A cold wind blew in through the tall, narrow window in the stone walls, the shadowy depth of the large, brownish, blackish, chiseled field stones giving rise to thick, oak ceiling beams. Hides of cattle, of bears, and deer covered the basalt floor and tapestries of rich reds, blues, purples and gold dressed the stone walls…she was almost there…almost back there, centuries back…

…Juliana was fearful, and had great right to be so. She'd well defamed her royal station, King Cedric, her father would disown her, Queen Grecia, her mother would weep and cry out, "Wherefore? God in heaven, wherefore?"

Her royal half brother, son of her mother, Queen Grecia and the dead king Johan, seethed before Juliana now within this thing she'd poured out to him, making him an unruly vessel of her sad and shameful truth…her prince and confidant, James…eight years her senior, always like her second father. James loved her well and Juliana adored him…and James had been all she had in this her time of need.

"You are but ten and five autumns, Juliana!" James's princely head wagged back and forth upon his shoulders still, but he ceased flailing his arms, his gold and blue robes settling against his powerful frame, his long straw colored hair compressed to his head by the angry force in his uneasy hands. "It is your father's intent to marry you to Sir Oakley come the summer next, but you have brought forth this plague upon Samcroa's peace!"

Juliana's tears still fell, her breath still quaked, but she would try to make her half brother comprehend, he had to comprehend…he had to still love her as he once did. "In faith, I meant not to," she pleaded, but James only turned his caped back to her, gazing out the slat of window in the castle wall and he stared down at the busy courtyard below…and Juliana knew which of her father's knights the prince's eyes sought out. "Sir Amalric is wondrous well a general and loyal to our king, but he is foully depraved and false! His words come forth with the piteous grace of a beggar's…a skin…he pleaded for a second skin to ward off the cold of his injury, and after I had given it, he had only shivered more and cried out that the chill would take him…the poor man…his skin looked nearly as blue as the light azure of his eyes, a ghastly site a'side of his hair's darkness…he asked if I would lie beside him, only for so as long enough that his blood might be warmed…I feared his majesty to be losing his best knight…I feared the suffering of one of God's creatures…" Juliana's voice broke and more tears came, the betrayal and shame she'd felt ever since that moment while standing near to the sickbed of Sir Amalric, trampling all else within her. "And so I lay down…beside him…to save him from death of cold!"

"'Death of cold,' Juliana?" Prince James spun on his heel to face her, his voice booming and hazel eyes flushed with ire. "Would not Amalric 'dead of cold' be more preferred than is his child within you?" His voice shook the very stone walls around them, her brother's scolding and disenchantment of her, the sister he'd always so loved, sending Juliana sinking down upon her knees, the red wool of her dress and the white muslin of the sheath beneath it cushioning her fall…but James was soon beside her, knelt down, taking her into his embrace, his brotherly instincts not subdued.

She wept, unable to stop, her face buried within the veil of her white wimple. "You reproach me for that which I can no longer undo." She cried, did her utmost not to lean against James's offered strength, she no longer deserved it…but oh she'd had hopes that her brother would hold answers for her, that his scheming mind would concoct some perfect preparation for making this announcement to the King. But it was not so…James was astounded and vexed, and he offered up little more than that. "I carry Amalric's bastard…there's nothing for it."

James sighed over his forlorn sister, his arms going more around her as a stillness overtook them both, Juliana weeping and the Prince searching out himself. She felt her brother's hand stroke over her trembling shoulder where her long, black hair would have laid if not for the wimple she wore. "Dear sister…" he spoke lowly and full of sorrow. "You have a kind and good and trusting heart, but it creates you as naïve and impulsive," he lamented, but then took her shaking, white hand and raised it to his mouth, his yellow whiskers pressing into her skin as he kissed the back of it softly, calming this tempest, for the moment hence. "I will speak to your father the King."

Author's Note: And now you've finished…and I must be honest in saying I am more than nervous about what you think! It's funny how no matter how much you love something and what a neat idea you think it is that when you actually post it and share it with the world, it suddenly has the potential to be so…stupid. Truly, I am on edge…I hope that this went over well with you, and I hope even more that you will leave a review and share your opinions and reactions! I sincerely thank you for reading, and I am much in debt to those of my readers who do review, because if you read this and enjoyed it, it is due to as much your own work as my own. Thank you! As always, I am open to and look forward to incorporating whatever ideas my readers have and would like to share!

If you did enjoy this first chapter, then I am happy to let you know that it isn't over with just yet! Please go to my profile page where you can click on a link to photobucket to see the characters you have just met in "The Dark Ages." I worked just as hard on, and am just as nervous about, the photo album as I am the story, so I hope you enjoy what you see there. Again, please let me know your thoughts by leaving a comment on the photo itself in the album, or in your review. Thank you all again, and as always, it is a great pleasure and privilege to entertain you! - Grace


	2. Away From Home

_Disclaimer:__ I do not own any characters from "Sons of Anarchy." They are the property of Kurt Sutter and Fox Network. No money is changing hands in the writing, reading or distribution of this story._

_Disclaimer #2:__ All original characters, including those based upon information graciously supplied by my readers, and the actions and beliefs of those original characters, are of my own interpretations and should not be assumed to completely represent, as a whole, the individual who agreed to become part of this story. This disclaimer applies retroactively beginning 7/30/10. I apologize for any inconveniences its lateness may have caused and sincerely thank everyone for supporting my work. _

The Dark Ages

A sequel to "Intended" and "Three Princes"

Chapter 2 - _10 Months Before Chapter 1_

The visiting room was small and narrow, a wide hallway really that was divided up into several little chambers almost like stalls in a barn. At some point, art therapy musta been the thing at Atwater because the front and back walls of each little suite had a giant mural painted on them that looked like some creepy elementary school class had been turned loose with brushes. There were two dimensional hillsides and red barns, trees with straight brown trunks and round green tops, some studded with dotted red apples…or maybe big cherries, Tig wasn't sure, and "m" shaped birds were swooping overhead in a baby blue sky full of jagged clouds that looked like illustrations of plaque build-up in artery walls. What? There'd never been a graffiti artist doing time here? That was really the best they could come up with? But that kinda summed up Atwater…it was the best they could come up with…Stockton, Los Angeles, those were better places to serve time…had a much better commissary…and fewer guards.

Each visitation suite had a large silver, metal, very institutional looking picnic type of table in it that took up the length of the little room, cemented to the walls and bolted to the floor. There was a door behind it where inmates were entered and exited, and the table top on that side had a heavy, iron ring welded to it where handcuffs were locked down. The visitor entered through another door on the opposite side of the inmate door, a big Plexi-glass door that clanked when it locked shut, and a guard was always standing on the other side of it, watching, with a gun. The overhead fluorescent light bounced off of the sleek metal surface of the table and today it lit Joss's spring green eyes in a way that made her look almost robotic, like her battery was low, but she was carrying out motions preprogrammed into her, her feelings and emotions shrunken and downplayed as she fought to keep her tears at bay.

His sweet, dark, perfect angel didn't like it here at the Federal Penitentiary at Atwater, and she hated that her old man was in here even more. She needed him where she could touch him, where he could put his arms around her so hard and tight that she felt dizzy in his embrace, she needed him fucking her so hard at night that it at times felt wrong not to yell for help. That's what they were, that was how they connected…but there was none of that in here. She always put on a strong exterior when Tig saw her, but that exterior was crumbling today, though she'd been holding up pretty good in general…on the surface…but every Saturday when she sat down across from him at this heavy metal table that he was cuffed to, the strain of his incarceration really showed in her face. But she never acknowledged it, and long before Tig could, Joss was always somehow able to focus herself and find a smile from within the darkness Tig knew she'd been living in. Three months had passed…three months time served in a fourteen month sentence…three months since he'd been able to do more to her than kiss her quickly and immaculately while a guard looked on, trying to make the hug they could only share for a few fleeting seconds feel like forever. Hugging her, holding her damn hand…Tig had never liked that shit, but now those moments were never enough, and Joss was here for them every Saturday; making the one hour and thirty-eight minute drive early in the morning to insure she was one of the first three visitors in line at Atwater Federal Penitentiary. Visiting hours were on Saturdays and lasted from eight in the morning to three in the afternoon, but the penitentiary only allowed two hundred visitors within its walls at one time, visits could only last up to three hours and visitor admission closed at two in the afternoon. But Joss was diligently among each set of two hundred every Saturday; this was all they had, she knew Tig had to see her, and she had to see him too.

This Saturday was different though. This wasn't the usual "cheer up" for both of them that her visits usually were. She'd come bearing tragic news…tragic news that she was doing all she could not to cry over and get Tig even more upset and angry than he already was. It reminded him of the first time she'd come to visit him at Atwater, how she'd gotten all teary eyed at the very first sight of him in his khaki button down shirt and pants, looking at him like she still recognized him, but like he was no longer hers, ripped away from her body so viciously that she was sitting there at that metal table still trying to wrap her wounds and stop the bleeding. But she'd managed to hold the deluge of tears back, just reaching forward and taking his hand, forgetting the uniform and finding Tig's eyes, latching onto him in the most intimate way she really could. The visitor door had been closed but it clanged and groaned as the electronic lock was set and Joss had flinched, not expecting the noise that was by then so common place to Tig, and he remembered now what it had felt like then to reassure her, squeezing her hand and looking back into her eyes, telling her, "it's alright," holding what he could of her tightly, not letting her look away from his eyes, whispering "you're with me, baby" and then seeing the tears in her eyes burst forth in quiet drops that rippled down her pale cheeks…for a much different reason than before.

He had to be that for her now but it was not so easy this time; this was not like pushing away the shock of himself in a federal prison inmate uniform or settling her after the dungeon-esque sound of being locked away. This was watching her trying to underplay how scared she was and how abounding her sadness and sense of loss was, all of it balled up with her anger that she couldn't express in here, couldn't express to her old man. She was protecting him with the mask she wore, trying only to inform him like she was an anchor on the evening news, no personal attachment to the trauma that she'd suffered…she couldn't make Tig angry, she knew and understood what all those extra "Y" chromosomes did to him…she couldn't make him upset, and if she were angry and upset when she talked to him, she knew he would have been too…and anger and fear were deadly things on the inside of prison walls, Joss knew that without having to be told, because she knew her man and what he was capable of. If he let off steam by pounding someone into the ground, then he earned himself time in "the hole," and there were no visitors for anyone serving out a sentence there. Plus, if Tig assaulted another inmate, or a guard, then he may end up adding time to the fourteen month sentence he'd pulled already.

But Tig was seething that she had to be that way, that she couldn't through herself into the strength of his arms and cry while he took this nightmare over and sorted it out, beat whoever needed beating and killed whoever needed killing. Someone did…and Tig was pretty confident who, too. But Joss cast no speculations, she could and would leave that up to her old man, it was one of the few things he could still do for her from behind the bars that confined him for nearly the next year to come. They were apart, not willingly, but their separation hadn't changed much in the aspect that Joss was still Tig's wife, still Tig's property, and she obeyed all that he told her to do or not to do. He didn't come home to her after a long day at the garage anymore, he didn't take her to club parties on the back of his bike, he didn't wrap her up in his arms at night as they fell asleep, both of them ignoring that he held her. But he could still give her structure, damn it, and he did. It was the only way he had to keep her safe from here…but structure hadn't done a damn thing when Joss's life was endangered.

"I couldn't see anything, Tig." She was saying and kept touching her eyes carefully, trying to wipe away tears before they marred her black winged eyeliner, her hand trembling in his across the metal table top and despite how well Joss was hiding how shaken up and angry and scared she still was, she couldn't stop the way her fingers jumped and shook within the increasing pressure of Tig's grasp, him trying to comfort her within the limited contact he was allowed to have with her, but it wasn't working…not even a little…he could probably bust that handcuff chained to his right hand and the table top, but if he did, the guard that was standing there would terminate this visit, and that was the last thing this situation called for. But Jesus fucking Christ…this was exactly the kind of thing Tig had feared the most the moment he'd stepped foot inside Atwater, that something would happen to Joss on the outside, and her old man wouldn't be there to protect her. Her mouth was dry and she panted a bit, overcome with the emotions that still ran ramped inside of her, and Tig knew they did, because they were stampeding inside him as well. Joss's emerald green eyes flicked up at him quickly, looking down again when tears started to glisten at their corners. "I just woke up in the middle of the night and there was smoke coming up the red stairwell. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see, there was so much smoke and so many embers…I just knew I had to get out. I don't even remember climbing out the bedroom window, into the tree, or hitting the ground…I just remember looking up and seeing the house on fire…all of it…the whole thing…" Joss's voice drew too small to be heard and her throat too tight to continue, her eyes squeezed shut like the air around her still burned and the smoke still choked her lungs, her whole body shook, Tig able to see the flames on the inside of the darkness her eyes were tucked into. "It's gone, Tig." Joss said without looking up, doubled over, her white fingers packed over her face to hid her tears. "It's gone…"

Tig felt something that was always so sturdy inside him crush apart, it wasn't meant to be handcuffed to a metal table in a prison visiting room while Joss came in here and started telling him about the night she'd nearly escaped with her life from their burning house. He was no good at comforting anyone, but he wanted to hold Joss, to blend his shock and anger and fear with hers in an intense, long embrace, let her know they were still in this together even though he was here and she was out there. The chain of the handcuffs clanked loudly and sharply as both of Tig's arms bolted forth to reach Joss, to close around her, his movement so forceful and quick that the jolt of the tether jammed his shoulder joint and the correctional officer's head turned over in Tig's direction. Fuck…he couldn't even hug his wife, not even at a time like this? Their house had burned down! They're fucking house! And Joss…his wife…had been asleep within it when it did! God damn it…putting his arms around her right now wouldn't have been about inappropriate contact, or even an attempt at taking a hostage…it was about showing her they were together…but no guard would ever have believed that…all Tig could to was hold her hand and speak to her…rendered impotent by the federal judge that sentenced him…and a man he once called "brother." Tig's heart beat fast and hard to the point of near explosion, arms flexing with the fury that made his fingers tremor…but he could do nothing…nothing but hold Joss's hand and try to use words to make this better…yeah, words…sure. "We got insurance, baby," Shit…that in no way was what he wanted to say to her or promise her. Tara…she'd written Tig a letter not so long ago, something cryptic and so silly sounding at the time, lines borrowed from something Shakespearean about "the dogs of war" and "hell's fire." It all made sense now; Tara knew that Atwater would read that letter before it was given to Tig, she couldn't say what she meant to him directly…but she'd did her best to warn him…war was coming to SAMCRO. Tig couldn't prove it just yet, but he knew…he knew who had set that fire, who had tried to kill his wife, SAMCRO's princess and Tig's link to the throne…and they wouldn't stop now. Jax…that fucking, blond haired cunt! God damn him! But this "total war" campaign that was emerging wasn't Jax…oh no…it was far worse than that. It was an obvious sign to anyone who knew of Jax's prissy ways that the generals in Jax's little army were usurping the little faggot's power! SAMCRO and all those connected to it were being hunted by shadows…Joss…they were all in trouble…the war had started…it was on…and SAMCRO's soldiers were…already taken prisoner…all except for two.

Tig's free hand clenched into a fist that he knew he couldn't slam into the table top, not without that fucking guard coming in here and revoking this visit…he was being "unruly" as the saying went. But his life was, the life of the club, was bleeding out inside of him and Joss was caught in the middle of it. Saving the club was not something he could handle by himself, but saving Joss was…at least, it was something he could order now. His chest heaved and his eyes felt like glowing coals as he looked back at Joss…she loved him with a madness that he shared with her, she'd survived the first strike of this war, had not been its first casualty…but she had no home now and she needed protection. "Opie!" Tig growled the name through his teeth, though his anger was in no way directed towards his future vice president. "You go to Opie, Joss! You tell him I sent you! You tell him I said to keep you safe…and you tell him if he doesn't, that I'll make sure his house is the next to fucking burn!"


	3. Siren's Song

_Disclaimer:__ I do not own any characters from "Sons of Anarchy." They are the property of Kurt Sutter and Fox Network. No money is changing hands in the writing, reading or distribution of this story._

_Disclaimer #2:__ All original characters, including those based upon information graciously supplied by my readers, and the actions and beliefs of those original characters, are of my own interpretations and should not be assumed to completely represent, as a whole, the individual who agreed to become part of this story. This disclaimer applies retroactively beginning 7/30/10. I apologize for any inconveniences its lateness may have caused and sincerely thank everyone for supporting my work. _

The Dark Ages

A sequel to "Intended" and "Three Princes"

Chapter 3

It's late, but I'm just now heading home. Joss wanted to go back to what's left of her house, try to sort through the burned ruins and see if she could find anything worth keeping. I know what she's looking for, but it's too dangerous to take her out there right now. For all I know she could be being watched, and if she isn't being watched, then maybe whoever set the fire thinks she's dead? Whatever, I just can't let her go back to the place that used to be her home, there's far too many uncertainties right now, it's not safe, no matter how much I know she wants to go back and try gather up whatever she can that's going to make her feel more right than she does now. I know what she hopes to find, I don't need her or anyone else to tell me…so I went back to her burned out house myself. I know what I'm looking for.

Wasn't a good night last night. Really awkward, I didn't sleep, neither did Joss. She looked like hell this morning, displaced, worried…missing Tig. But I can't say she's in shock, the girl understands this life a little too well; her house burned down, she almost went with it…but it was like she was always prepared for that to happen to her, there's no guarantees in this life, no real permanent kind of stability, Joss has some kind of sea legs on her when it comes to these waves that come crashing down out of nowhere. But she can't handle not having Tig with her and losing their house just took another piece of him away from her…now she's really lost. Too lost to even put the sheets and blankets and pillow I gave her last night on the couch, they were still folded up on the top of the cushions in exactly the way I'd laid them there the night before, the pillow beside them. I'm pretty sure she never even lay down on the couch, just sat up all night staring at my shitty TV, but not really watching it. No more satellite, all the kids and I have now is regular channels…all seven of them; money's tight…really tight…the club's broke…hell, Charming's broke, this recession hits small towns the hardest and Charming's a small town. And me and Joss were both wide awake, and worried, in this small town last night…I should have gone downstairs and talked to her, wouldn't have mattered about what, I think we both could use someone's company…but we're not really what the other needs right now, would have just left us both feeling more alone.

I know Joss feels like she's a tremendous bother, and I admit that the last thing I was set up for, or even ready for, was her moving in…but that's what has happened, even if she doesn't want to call it that yet. But she doesn't have a house anymore, there isn't a place for her to go…yeah, she'll argue that she'd been staying with Lauren out on the farm until Tig had put an end to that, and I do understand why, and I agree with him; this club is under attack…two SAMCRO old ladies in one domicile is a really easy kill, Clay's obviously thinking the same thing, he hasn't called for a lockdown, so even he feels like safety is coming more from being spread out. But Joss is already a known target; that makes it different. There aren't many people who know she's here, we're keeping it that way. Everyone else has to check in now, my phone rang about thirty times this morning, old ladies and other SAMCRO associates calling to let me know the night had passed uneventfully…if I don't hear from someone then I got to go check it out. I'm only the Sergeant at Arms, but I'm also the only officer on the outside still, everyone's suddenly under my command, and I'm their only real protection. And Joss…she may belong to Tig, he may be married to her and he may own her, but he sent her to me, he put her in my house…that means she's mine, and Tig knows it, but that only extends out as far keeping her safe goes, I don't have any other kind of "rights" towards her, but she does have to listen to me as if I were her old man…and neither one of us are ready for that.

It would have made more sense for Joss to stay with Gemma, send this scared and alone girl back to her "mother." But Gemma's not even an option right now, Tig knows that…the queen's still on house arrest and that means she can't associate with anyone in, or attached to, SAMCRO. And Chibs? He'd fight to keep Joss safe, she's his brother's old lady, it would be his honor and his privilege to do such a thing, but Joss and Chibs don't have what Joss and I have, and Tig knows that too. I'm not sure that Tig is or ever will be comfortable with what Joss and I have…whatever it is, but I think right now Tig is thankful that we have it. I wish I felt the same. I keep telling myself to focus on other parts of why Tig selected me to protect Joss; I'm the only one with a house, I'm the SAA and protection is my job, one day I'm going to be Tig's second in command and we have to start working together now and set that precedent, but in spite of all the other reasons I can concoct, I always come back to that Tig sent her to me because I'm the only one with any kind of…bond with Joss, even if on the inside of that bond is a bullet that I've promised to put in her head. But Joss moving in is really the last thing I need, but what the hell else is there for her to do? And how am I going to turn a brother's old lady away, no matter who she is?

But the timing couldn't be worse…Verda and I…I don't know really what happened there, because it's still kind of happening, just in super slow motion. Things were great…but the more great they got, the more serious we got…and that only leads one place in an MC. And of course it had to happen that just when I go ahead and propose, everyone around me ends going to fucking prison…and that effected Verda more than the ring I slipped onto her finger. All of a sudden she knew what she was dealing with, what I am and what could possibly happen and where it would leave her. Told me she needed time to think…and I wouldn't let her give back the ring…she just needs time to think, right? Yeah, I don't know why part of still expects me to believe that. Verda is "knowing" more than she's actually "thinking." She marries me or signs on with me in any way, she's making a huge change to life as she's always known it, complete with brand new dangers she'd never have to face if she just stays clear of me. Think…yeah, she's been "thinking" for a month now. Damn it, what was I expecting? She's not from the place I come from, she doesn't live the way I live…it wasn't easy for Tara to live that double life and she did spend her teenage years around it. I keep telling myself that the longer Verda takes to come back, the more she's thinking about it, and the more she thinks about it, the better things will be when she does come back…but it has been a month…a whole month…we talk every now and then…but a whole month…

I'm still shook up, rubbed raw and licking my wounds that just won't heal until Verda tells me…anything…and now I've got Joss…beautiful, helpless, sad Joss living in my house, moping around, trying to hide the fact that she cried all last night on the couch…refusing to take my bed and let me move to the couch, because I'm "too tall" and "would never be comfortable on the couch." She's right, I hate sleeping on the couch, but her concern for how I'd feel right now, combined with the "please, someone, fix me" look on her face and over all pitiful vibe she's giving off, is really playing with me in ways I don't want it to be. But it's not me alone that she's affecting; the night her house burned, she had every male cop, fireman and paramedic practically on their knees in front of her, just begging her to believe them when they said they'd "find out who did this to her," swearing that to her like there'd be some reward in it for them that had nothing to do with money, or justice. Joss is never more alluring than when she's sad, feeling alone, looking for a safe place; something about her just cries out to be held, pleads for kindness, begs to be taken care of…she's like one of those "please help, send money" commercials that come on late at night with those bloated belly, starving children or abused animals that all look up at the camera with this heartbroken, bewildered innocence on their faces like they're asking you there, on the couch, "Why did this happen to me? What did I do? Why did they hurt me?" On Joss that's irresistible, but it's not your wallet you reach for. You want to help her, you want to fix everything for her, you want to pick her up and hold her close and promise her she'll be okay, that you'll make sure of it…you want to take her in your arms and then take her to your bed, and be a man to her…her man. She's like some accidental, sad, siren with no self awareness, calling to you and drawing you closer and closer, making you want her more and more, even though you know exactly what a big fucking rock Tig is to crash into.

But as thick as all of that pull is, I can still feel that it's not really part of what she and I have…that's something else, impossible to ignore and heavier than a rush of heroin, but it's not what mine and Joss's core is. That's what I have to stick to, that's what I have to keep in mind…but it would be a hell of a lot easier to concentrate on what she and I really are if I knew what she and I were to start with. We never really had a chance to define that, we talked about it once or twice, compared it to various relationships from movies or books or what not…everything from "Luke and Leia" to "Frog and Toad," but right about when we were talking about it, I got all caught up in Verda, and Joss, she's always caught up in Tig, he's the sun in her sky. So we never figured it out, we still don't know…and now we're both ripped to shreds and bleeding all over each other…living in the same house. We've got to get this thing we have figured out now! It's never been more important!

Chapter 3; Part 2

The aroma that filled up Opie's living room wasn't really the most pleasant, but not really the most foul either. It was like someone had been frying a few pounds of bacon and let it all burn, the charred smell overriding the savory notes of something almost meat like. It was all Joss could smell now, sitting here on the couch at three in the morning, clutching the plastic bag that contained what was left of her patch. She'd been devastated when Opie had called and said that he was going to her house without her, she'd wanted to throw a fit and demand that he come get her and take her with him, but she couldn't do that…they weren't on the sidelines right now, this was new and very real, Tig had made it that way by sending her here and charging Opie with keeping her safe. And Ope was keeping her safe by not taking her home…home…oh yeah, Joss didn't have one of those anymore. But she did have her patch!

It was the first thing she'd thought of the moment her bare feet had hit the leaf and twig littered ground the night she'd escaped the flames by climbing out the bedroom window, across the roof and down the closest oak tree. Why hadn't she thought to grab her patch off the upper corner of the bedroom door? It was close enough, no fire between her and it…but there was so much smoke…she couldn't see, or breathe, and survival instincts kicked in where sentimental and old lady ones failed her. But she'd wanted her patch, no, she'd needed it. She couldn't leave it lying in the charcoaled rubble; it was like leaving a man behind…her man. The bedroom and most of the upper floor of the house hadn't burned as much as it had collapsed when the downstairs was eaten away by the blaze. Joss had hope that her patch had survived and she had to go and find out! It was her duty to do so, to protect that patch the way Tig would have defended his own colors…she needed her patch…she needed the words "Property of Tig" on her back now more than ever before.

Opie was…no, Joss didn't even want to get into it, it was too exhausting and depressing and made her want to get up and run out the front door of his house…she didn't belong here, she was disrupting things that were trying to heal in him, she could feel that. She did like Ope, loved him even, but things would never be dark or scary enough for Joss to look to him the way she did Tig…and Ope didn't need to live with more rejection than he already was. But Ope had brought her patch to her! He'd known what to look for and what to find…and he had! It was very very scorched, a lot of the fringe had shriveled in the intensity of the fire's heat, smoke and ash had smudged and stained the white background of each rocker and the reaper in the center, and the fire hoses had definitely given it a good dousing several times over. It was nowhere near wearable, but Joss had her patch! Tig's Bronze Star remained safely within its lining, along with his old Sergeant at Arms badge, and the Ten Patch that Opie had given her and Tig had sewed onto the inside back of the vest for her what seemed like so long ago now at the Custom Bike Awards in Lodi. Joss could salvage all those things and transfer them to a new patch…when she got one…Tig told her to "keep what was good about him," and she'd been doing that, that's why she had to find her patch in the burned out hell of her former house…she had to protect Tig, and finding her patch was the only way she really had of doing that. He was safe, he was under her care…but he was also nothing more than a smelly, singed heap of black leather and embroidery in a used plastic grocery store bag.

Joss shook and tremorred so hard as she cried that the couch actually rattled softly against the wall behind it. She hadn't been this close to having Tig with her, sitting beside her, for three months, but she'd also never felt more far apart from him. Sure, she could take off all the rockers and the reaper emblem, she could scrub them all white again with a toothbrush and some bleach, she could remove Tig's Star, the Ten Patch and Tig's old badge, and she could have all of them put onto a new leather vest…but it wouldn't be the same…it wouldn't ever be the same patch that Tig had given her the day he'd come and claimed her from Jax's old room. It was as much gone from her life as Tig was for the next eleven months.

Music cut quietly on upstairs, heavy footsteps creaking across the floorboards and then the chair in Opie's room squeaked dully. He wasn't sleeping again either, just as awake as Joss was, for the second night in a row. Joss felt herself tighten up on the couch, like she was afraid Opie might come down and try to talk to her…she wasn't ready to talk, she wasn't capable of doing much but missing Tig. The house didn't matter, almost dying in it didn't either…but Tig being gone…that was a poison dagger in her heart. Opie was probably reading in the chair, she'd heard him do the same thing last night, if Joss was quiet enough in the stillness of three in the morning, she could actually hear him turning the pages. That was comforting, meant that Ope wasn't coming down the steps…he was up there in the room he should have been sleeping in, across the hall from his kids…whom Joss had no idea how to even think about…her man had killed their mother…oh God…what did she do with that? What did she do with anything anymore? Tig was gone…and it was starting to feel like he was never coming back.

And then she had the strangest feeling that she was flat…like all the grief and the guilt and the pain of not having Tig with her had turned into a huge derrick that was slowly lowering tons of iron down onto her body. It was getting hard to breathe, her stomach kept sucking in and in and in, her lungs crushed and crumpled inside her compressing ribcage, her heart fighting to beat against the torrential force that was falling over her and her eyesight was going fuzzy, then black…she was getting flatter…two dimensional…everything piling up and beginning to ground her out of existence…she just couldn't do it anymore…she couldn't live in Opie's house…she couldn't live with this beaten up, disfigured patch…she couldn't live without Tig…she couldn't live…oh God, was she dying? Is this what dying felt like? Like being flattened, paper thin, everything inside of her from organs to emotions turned to pulp and slurry…it was all…flat…flat. And yet she still breathed, her heart still struggled out a rhythm in her chest…no, this wasn't what dying felt like…it was what giving up felt like, and that was even more dangerous than dying.

With a heavy shake of her whole frame and a gasp like she'd come to the surface of a riotous sea, Joss flew back into herself, falling back against the couch cushions so hard that her head snapped forward enough to make her dizzy. But she wasn't flat anymore…she couldn't give up…she had to find something that was going to keep her going…giving up wouldn't get Tig back with her, and it wouldn't keep her sane, either. She had to…do something…she had to find a reason to…feel good…she needed to feel good…if she went on feeling…flat, then by the time Tig did come home to her, she wouldn't be who she was when he'd left her…the beast…it wasn't there directly, but it seemed like it lived just under the flatness, it appeared when the rest of her gave up, and then it took over. Feel good, feel good…find something to be happy about…it was up to Joss to keep herself going…

She looked to the plastic bag with her wounded patch within it, but it wasn't really the tattered leather she focused on. Opie had found and brought her laptop to her too, still closed within the metal sided attaché case that Joss kept it in, never having had the money to buy the traditional soft sided shoulder sling for it, and she'd found the attaché in the garage under some of Tig's stuff. He'd said she could have it, wasn't even sure why he had it, so he wouldn't miss it. It was stupid and bulky looking, would have made a spectacle like 'clunk' on the café table of any coffeehouse Joss hauled into to work on something, but now the protection of the case gave her hope. Find something to feel good about…be happy…she flipped open the metal clips of the attaché and felt around the edges of it…it was dry! Had her laptop survived? She'd ripped it out of the case and flipped it open so fast she didn't remember doing it, she just remembered staring into the whitish-blue light of the screen as it came to life…and in no time, she started to type…started to write…started to write a story, where she could control everything that happened.


End file.
